by Rob Buckman
“It’s not a nuke, Hiro,” Brock said. “Remember, we want to live there again after we rebuild it.”
“Your pardon, Colonel Brock-san. It was unkind of me to think such a thing.”
“Don’t sweat it. We might have to use a few before this is over.”
“I understand, Brock-san. This enemy is unworthy of anything less than complete extermination, by whatever means.” Brock nodded in agreement.
“Air wing has launched, sir.”
“Good. Now let’s take out those troopships.”
Radar showed hundreds of blips as a swarm of Terran Defense Force fighters lifted over the horizon to engage the lizard air elements. Within moments, a snarling dogfight erupted, and for a while it was impossible to tell friend from foe. Not that it mattered. Months of air-combat training had paid off, and Earth’s air defense tore through the lizards like the proverbial hot knife through warm butter.
Behind them came a blizzard of ship-killing missiles. Not just a few dozen that the troopships’ point defense systems might be able to handle, but hundreds of them. Wave after wave, overwhelming any possibility of stopping them all. The first wave lifted skyward, then curved over and plunged down onto the ships’ shield, weakening it at ground level. The second wave came in hugging the ground, easily penetrating the weakened edge. They didn’t simply detonate against the hull, but plunged through before exploding inside. Gouts of flame, hull, and debris vomited outward, while the inside turned into a charnel house. In desperation, the second ship tried to lift, partly to escape the onslaught and partly to try to strengthen the shield by getting away from the energy-draining ground effect, but it was too late.
* * * * * *
Ground Force Leader Lecar gritted his teeth in agony. Every square inch of exposed scales felt as if it were on fire, and at first he thanked the spirits that he was alive, until he staggered out from behind the protecting concrete of the firing range butts and saw the destruction of his landing ships. He watched in horror as first one, and then the other slowly succumbed to the blizzard of missiles. It was like watching some giant beast be slowly torn apart from the inside out. Behind him, his security guards, what was left of them, gathered around him, but his driver lay on the ground withering in agony. The commander moved around the end of the shooting butts so he could see the hewman town they’d come to take. It was gone, as were his troops, and stumbling to a block of concrete he sat down, his legs no longer able to support him. This couldn’t, shouldn’t be happening. These hewmans were herd animals, not warriors. Yet in all his years in combat, he’d never seen this much carnage in so short a time. He looked at the sky, doubting he’d ever see the cool swamps of his home again. Somehow these animals had unleashed the demons from the deepest pit of hell.
* * * * * *
“Well, that takes care of New Zealand, now let’s take care of the rest of the world,” Brock muttered, his eyes flicking from screen to screen.
Each showed a different city, and there was no way he could defend them all with his limited troops, at least in comparison to the number of boots the lizards were putting on the ground. Sadly, most would have to fend for themselves until such time as they’d defeated a major part of this landing force. That wasn’t going to be easy. New Zealand was a fluke. A carefully planned fluke, but a fluke nonetheless, based on the way the lizards attacked last time. He’d suckered them into a killing zone, and there was no guarantee he’d be able to do the same thing again. The main thrust of the landing seemed aimed at the capital city, with one or two troopships landing near each major city. England and Japan came in for their share of attention, with eight troopships heading for a landing somewhere on each island. In a way he pitied the poor lizards when they tried. Even as he watched, an incredible amount of anti-lander ordnance exploded skyward. Instead of sitting around crying into the hankies like the rest of the world, England had dug in and produced an incredible array of weapons.
Like the one King of England had said to his people, “This is a fight to the death, and we don’t intend on dying.” This wasn’t the first time in her long history England had suffered an enemy invasion, and no one had successfully done it since 1066. Except American tourists, he thought with dry humor. Japan, on the other hand, had opted for a different approach. They offered no resistance to the troopship landing, preferring their enemy on the ground where their forces could get at them. In Japan’s case, the weather helped them by providing a typhoon. This was seen as an omen; the “kamikaze,” or sacred wind, had come to their aid again, effectively shutting down air support or even orbital observation and support. The next twenty-four hours would give the Japanese troops a critical advantage, which they intended to use to its fullest.
“We have tanks or something similar on the ground, sir.” Brock’s eyes flicked to the screen over the operation consult, seeing row after row of huge, butt-ugly tanks rumbling off the loading ramp of the enemy troopship.
“I see it. Comm. Give armor a heads up. They have traffic coming their way.”
“Aye-aye sir, on it.”
* * * * * *
The enemy commander landed his ships on a broad plain outside New Mecca so he could use his tank to its fullest potential. The wide savanna offered the perfect place where they could advance on the city and destroy any strong point his troops encountered. The trouble was it worked both ways, as he was about to find out. There were no real strong points as such, just fallback positions for the hewman troops to use as needed. Brock wasn’t about to make the fatal mistake of being forced into a defensive battle. The new MBT was a far cry from anything he’d used in the Middle East deserts. Each was powered by a fusion reactor that supplied power to the shield and twin plasma cannons. They also carried twin “Vulcan”-style needle cannons mounted on swivels on each side of the turret, to handle ground pounders. Over open ground they could reach speeds of over seventy miles per hour with multi-targeting lock and shoot ability. Add to that an independently targeting antiaircraft rack on the rear of the turret, and you had one lethal machine. Brock wasn’t sure why, but instead of using a combined ground/armor attack as Earth forces did, the alien commander sent his tanks off by themselves in a flanking attack. That was all right with Brock, since it gave his tanks even more freedom of movement without having to worry about friendly fire accidents with his own men and women.
The armor commander had the same information as Brock, so he didn’t need someone looking over his shoulder micromanaging his battle. Brock left it up to him how he’d use his forces, nodding to himself while one hundred and twenty tanks broke off from the main force and wheeled out to take on the lizard tank force. You could see daylight under the hundred-ton monsters as they came over a slight rise at better than sixty miles per hour, the anti-grav cushioning setting them down soft enough to avoid loss of speed or control. The twin plasma cannons belched white lightning, and the fight was on. Both formations quickly dissolved into a swirling mass of armored titans hammering away at each other, gradually vanishing into a swirling cloud of dust and smoke. Win or lose, it was out of Brock’s hands. Either the months of intense training would pay off and they’d win, or superior enemy tanks would carry the day.
* * * * * *
The lizard tank commander almost smiled when he saw the hewman tanks come flying over the rise. They were half the size of his MBTs, and he assessed them more of a nuisance than anything else. He zoomed in for a closer look, surprised to discover they didn’t have tracks or wheels as his did, but floated on an anti-grav cushion. He didn’t know what advantage that would be until he saw one of them get hit. Instead of exploding in flame, the tank skidded sideways, then turned, flying backward, and fired both its main armaments. One of his tanks exploded, while another became bogged down in some swampy ground that the hewman tanks just flew across as if it wasn’t there. The smile slipped when his formation dissolved into a swirling mass of fighting machines. Dust, mud, water, and smoke obscured his vision, and even switching to infrared didn�
��t help. He found he couldn’t fire without hitting one of his own units. The human tanks didn’t have any such limitations, since centuries of tank warfare had taught them the necessity of being able to see the enemy under the worst conditions. The ground forces commander watched in disbelief, then shock, while first his tanks were neutralized, and then his ground forces came under attack.
He wasn’t sure what or where it was coming from, but the ground around his troops erupted in columns of flame and destruction while his men ran into a minefield. Added to that, the hewmans launched a barrage of artillery and rockets at them from long range. This exploded in air bursts and devastated entire sections of his advancing troops. Thankfully, more troops were arriving from the second and third wave of landing ship to fill in the gaps, and keep the advance moving forward. He tried targeting the hewman artillery with his own, but found it difficult, since they kept moving from place to place in unpredictable jumps, stopping just long enough to shoot before moving again. This was frustrating. These hewmans didn’t fight like any species he’d run into before. Their approach showed a deep understanding of warfare that should be beyond their primitive capabilities. A short time ago, they didn’t even have weapons, and now they were fighting like veteran troops, blooded in combat. Thankfully, the Horde had troops in overwhelming numbers, and they would soon overpower this limited defense. Once the hewman fleet was annihilated, he would be able to call on orbital bombardment to take care of any strong points or stubborn resistance. Yet this was something he was loath to do. Needing assistance from the fleet would reflect badly on his abilities as a commander.
* * * * * *
Hiro looked at Colonel Brock in wonder. He no longer paced back and forth but stood like a statue, his face still, as if it were carved from stone. Any nervousness he’d felt before the battle for Earth started was gone. Now the fog of war had closed in, and all he could do now was stand, watch, and wait. It was up to the individual men and women out there, and in space, to win or lose this battle, and nothing Brock or Admiral Scott Drake could do or say would change the outcome, no matter what the cost.
* * * * * *
“All units are to advance,” Scott ordered. “All ahead two-thirds helm.”
“Aye, aye, sir, all ahead two-thirds.”
“Lady Jane: order all units to come to battle formation Echo One.”
“All units to battle formation Echo One confirmed, Admiral.”
At 35,000 kilometers per hour, the Earth fleet bore down on the first enemy fleet, and as before, the alien fleet closed up into a spherical formation the moment the light and information reached their sensors. Now came the edge that Scott hoped he had, waiting until the last possible second to execute the order to change formation. By that time, even at the closer distances, the enemy commander wouldn’t be able to relay the information at light speed to change his formation to counter Scott’s. He would be committed to the course he’d set several minutes before.
At a slightly slower rate to lengthen the cool-down time between shots, the Australia pumped out the five-ton balls of destruction, one after the other at a steady rate. This would help keep the enemy fleet concentrated to ensure shield overlap and prevent any of the lethal balls from penetrating. That meant that at some point, the two fleets would merge, and one of two things would happen. Either the alien fleet commander would order his fleet to open up to englobe the small Earth fleet, or order them into a spear arrangement so he could pierce the Earth fleet formation. Both courses of action had the potential of inflicting, and absorbing, the maximum amount of damage to both fleets. Scott was betting the alien commander would go for the spear, since it meant he could inflict the maximum damage on the Earth fleet and minimize the damage to his, and he had more escort ships to absorb the damage. It was the same choice on Scott’s side, but going to a spear formation with a much larger fleet carried the penalty of absorbing a lot more damage to his fleet than he could inflict on the enemy. His only advantage was that his ships had side shields.
On command from Scott, behind them, the missile ships began belching out the next wave of capital missiles, except these all swung wide of the fleet, apparently heading for open space north, south, east, and west of both fleets. Tension on the Australia and the ships of the fleet mounted as they drove toward the enemy; mouths got dry, filled with the coppery taste of fear, and more than a few crewmen had the almost uncontrollable urge to pee their pants. On face value it looked insane, as if the whole of the Earth fleet seemed hell bent on a suicide dash to smashing themselves again an enemy fleet three times their size. Several of the bridge crew looked nervously over their shoulders at Scott, fear sweat running down their faces.
Trying to ignore everything around him, Scott volleyed orders at rapid-fire pace: “Steady as she goes—all hands close up and stand ready. Guns, on my count discontinue mass-driver bombardment. Lady Gray, put the gunslingers on notice that their services will be needed shortly.”
“So notified, my admiral.”
Scott felt the tension in his gut mounting as the moment of decision neared. On his order hung the success, or defeat, of Earth’s first major interstellar battle. And the fate of the human race. As Sun Tzu observed so rightly, “… on deadly ground, fight!”
CHAPTER EIGHT: …Still, the sheepdog disturbs the sheep. He is a constant reminder that there are
wolves in the land…. LTC (RET) D. Grossman
“Now Lady Gray,” was all he needed to say.
Even as he gave the order, the message instantly flashed to all units of the fleet through the ring communication systems, with no time lag. Like some well-orchestrated ballet, five hundred ships moved into a long cylindrical formation, the Australia in the lead, to form a long spear. Ahead flashed the last two five-ton depleted uranium/boron balls, immediately followed by what could be described as a long school of silvery fish. In comparison to the behemoth ships around them, they seemed insignificant and fragile.
“Tallyho!” someone yelled over the radio, and for a moment Scott felt as if his heart stopped.
Even in an excited state, he recognized his wife’s voice. For a split second, he thought of ordering her back and away from the danger. He clamped down on the half-formed command and forced himself to relax. He wanted nothing more than to hold her in his arms, safe, secure, shielded from the darkness beyond this hull, yet he knew he couldn’t. He was here and in as much, or maybe greater danger than she, but she’d never ask him to not go, not to defend Earth and their son, or not to put his life in harm’s way. Could he do less? With haunted eyes he watched in silent agony while the gunslingers charged straight at the demons from beyond the stars.
* * * * * *
Fleet Commander Writh felt his crest lift, puzzled by what he saw. The human fleet still surged toward him in a seemingly futile attempt to penetrate his shields. Interlocked tightly as they were now, it was an effort doomed to failure. As always, he softly cursed the time lag at moments like this, wishing for real-time information on what was actually happening outside the hull of his ship. It was a forlorn wish.
“Commander. The hewmans have launched.…”
“Well, youngling, what have they launched?”
“I … I don’t know, Commander.… They could be missiles … or some new type of ship,” he stuttered. The fleet commander snarled a curse and kicked up the magnification on his repeater screen beside his combat chair.
For a moment he thought of pushing the punishment button, but stayed his claw at what he was seeing. The youngling was right. It was impossible to tell what the cursed hewmans had launched at him. Ugly, brutish-looking things that defied description. They could be some type of new ship, or missiles, yet neither fit. His eyes flicked up to the main battle board, seeing the hewmans’ fleet bearing down on him, at a loss to know how to respond.
“Incoming missiles!” a youngling had jumped from his seat in excitement, unable to contain himself.
“Where from!” Subcommander Writh demanded.
<
br /> “From … from everywhere.”
Missile tracks blossomed on the battle board and for a stunned moment, everything froze. The missiles were coming from every direction at once. Thousands of missile tracks swamped the board as they bore toward the outside of his fleet and the weakest part of his shield defense. In that one brief moment, Fleet Commander Writh got his wish. He saw in real time what was about to happen. The missiles would slam into the flanks of his fleet at the weakest point. His ships would turn to face this new threat, and thereby weaken his central protection, already somewhat degraded from the impact of those strange balls of something the hewmans kept firing at him. Behind them came the odd-looking ships, and behind those came …
He let out a roar of pure anger. The hewman fleet was going to alter its configuration to that of a spear and punch its way through his weakened defenses. Even as he watched, the outer ships of his fleet turned to put their strongest shields toward the incoming threat. Forward shield integrity diminished to the point where the strange-looking ships, if that’s what they were, could punch through behind the last two high-impact strikes. His eyes remained locked on the battle board, knowing before it happened that the hewman fleet would re-form. At the last possible moment before they struck they did, forming into a long spear shape aimed at the heart of his fleet, the gleaming white triangular-shaped hull of the Earth battleship in the lead.